


5 times Betty and Jughead leave things unsaid and 1 time the confessions feel too important to not be said out loud

by catthecoder



Series: foolish hearts [5]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, FBI Agent Betty Cooper, Forbidden Love, Opposites Attract, Secrets, Slow Burn, thief Jughead Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:36:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26273476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catthecoder/pseuds/catthecoder
Summary: Catching criminals is pretty straightforward, at least in theory. The criminal doesn’t want to go to the jail, while the agent tries just about anything to make it happen - that’s the way the world has always worked. However, as it turns out, if you find a thief that’s desperate enough and an agent with just the right amount of hope and add a pair of foolish hearts into the mix, the outcome will flip the world upside down, ensuring that what actually happens in practise is the exact opposite of the proposed theory.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: foolish hearts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1452949
Comments: 37
Kudos: 72





	5 times Betty and Jughead leave things unsaid and 1 time the confessions feel too important to not be said out loud

**Author's Note:**

> hello there! it's been a hot minute, yes, i am well-aware, but i am _not_ giving up or abandoning this series - i love it way too much to leave it unfinished. 
> 
> as always, a few quick disclaimers: i've beta-d this myself, so all mistakes are on me. also, i have no idea how FBI cases and trials etc work, so just remember that as you'll want to shout _"hey, that's not correct!"_
> 
> anyways, happy reading, can't wait to see you at the end!!

**_1_ **

Things are going so well and smoothly that Betty wants to stop for a moment and let that feeling sink in - she wants to revel in the sweetness that reminds her of victory, of success. Unfortunately, it is not something she can afford to do right now - not in the middle of a mission, not when her focus needs to be razor-sharp and her mind completely void of any distractions.

When it comes to picking agents for field missions like these, usually Betty isn’t the first choice. Hell, she isn’t even the second or the third choice - weilding a gun, catching criminals in action, all the violence and sometimes the inevitable blood-shed - none of that is exactly her forte. She is at her strongest in museums and art galleries, she thrives in the lab with Veronica or any other forensic scientist that gets assigned to her case, she enjoys sitting by her computer for hours as she pieces all of the evidence together, making the odd-shapes puzzle pieces fit together seamlessly. That’s something she has always excelled in, that’s the path she has picked for herself back when she first started her training at the Academy, that’s her life. 

However, all that does not mean she had skipped out on field training and it certainly does not mean that there was even a slightest chance that she was going to sit this one out.

After all, this has always been her case; ever since that first fateful morning when her boss called her in his office and asked her specifically to work on it; ever since she and Archie stepped foot onto the first crime scene, finding nothing but a forgery with a sticky post-it note glued to it; ever since the first sleepless night she has spent desperately trying to understand just how clever and skilled this man actually was.

So, no, there was nothing that could stop her from being here tonight.

Watching the agents around her move together as one, as if they were barely more than an extension of a single being, it almost makes her heart clutch with pride.  _ This is it - this really is it _ . This is the night, this is the moment where months of her hard work - well, not just hers, but also that of dozens of people who have built cases against the Serpents - will finally pay off. 

She can almost feel the taste of victory on the tip of her tongue - it’s sweet, honey-like. Her heartbeat fastens as her eyes hungrily roam over the room. At first, she supposes it is just her sense of accomplishment taking over, drinking in the victorious scene in front of her. Of the Serpents, surprised, overpowered and outnumbered. Caught red-handed, with bags full of money and guns, they still choose to fight back and Betty understands - she sees the determination in their postures, mixed with hatred and fear. She understands the desperate need to fight back, however futile those attempts might be.

However, a heavy realisation settles on her a bit later, slowly overpowering the sweetness that seemed to fuel her body until then. It doesn’t hit her like a ton of bricks or like this huge, all-destroying and crushing tsunami; it begins like a tingle at the back of her neck, as a soft wind catching in her ponytail. One moment, there’s nothing out of the ordinary and then, as another moment passes, she finds this sense of wrongness softly settling in her chest. Her heartbeat slows down, not running purely on adrenaline anymore, and whispers:  _ he’s not here.  _

The Serpents are all wearing masks and matching uniforms, but there’s this sense of sureness rooted deep in Betty’s heart, encouraging her in the belief that she could pick Jughead out of the crowd even with her eyes closed.

_ Where is he? _

She hears herself mumbling something about going to check the perimeter to the agent closest to her; his quick nod of acknowledgement is the last thing she sees before her back turns to the commotion. 

The gunfire still rings in her ears as she passes corner after corner, as she searches one hallway after another. The sound follows her wherever she goes, but she isn’t terrified, she isn’t haunted by it. No, this isn’t her first mission, this isn’t the first time she has been present as lives were taken.

However, that does not stop this weird fear from settling in her stomach. She can try to pretend to not understand its origin, but in the empty hall, far away from any prying looks, with nobody to keep her company but moonlight and darkness, the whole point of pretending feels kind of pointless.

So, as she jogs through the building, her heavy boots thudding against the polished marble, she lets her thoughts match her tempo while she tries to unpack that heavy feeling.

She has gone all-in, relaying on nothing but this sense of certainty her foolish heart offered her - meanwhile, the truth is that she has no damn clue whether any of those masked Serpents was Jughead. Having the ability to pick him out of the sea of black is nothing but wishful thinking, the level of closeness she craves but is still quite far from achieving. 

What if he is there, back in that room that is currently riddled with bullets, full of both agents and criminals, neither of whom are afraid to use violence? What if she has left him there and he will end up getting caught in crossfire? What if something bad happens to him, how will she be able to live with herself then? With the knowledge that, she has ruined his life not once, but twice?

And then, there is the second option, the other side of the coin, nagging at her heart with equal pain. Because, ultimately, she has no idea whether he even really is here; whether he hasn’t just sent a tip in, ensuring that the place would be swarming with FBI agents before the Serpents could run off with pockets-full of cash. 

Caught up in her thoughts, it takes her a second to notice the person standing still in the middle of the hallway she has just turned to, but once she does, her brain switches from overthinking to a razor-focused machine seamlessly, her arms raising her gun to take aim just as cautionary shout exits her mouth. “Hey, you! Hands where I can see them!”

And the person listens, moving his arms up slowly. They are about half-way up when he stops, when the sound of his laugh reaches Betty’s ears. It’s careless and carefree, as if nothing about this situation scared him, not the fact that there is a federal agent just a couple of feet away from him, not that her gun is aimed at his chest, true and unafraid, not that Betty’s finger lingers at the trigger, a flinch away from pulling it.

She is pretty sure he can pick up on the way she tenses up at his reaction; at the confusion flowing through her entire system. “Oh, what’s so funny about being arrested?” she calls out, hoping that the echo her words leave behind will be enough to mask her uncertainty.

He shakes his head and Betty uses that as an opportunity to get closer to him. She feels like she should be afraid - after all, she’d be a fool to not notice the gun strapped to his hip, the confidence with which he carries his body, almost as if there isn’t a single thing about this situation that scares him. But her hands don’t tremble and neither does her breath; she feels nothing but steady and calm.  _ He’s just stalling,  _ she thinks _ , trying to get you distracted so he can get away. Don’t let him do that. _

“It is quite funny,” the criminal says. Betty’s eyes flick to his hand, noticing its careful movement towards his head. It makes her stare at him only that more intently, watching him like a hawk, awaiting the moment he decides to flee. Her index finger curls tighter around the trigger.

_ Just keep him talking, use his own distraction technique against him _ , Betty’s brain supplies and she obliges immediately.

“Yes?” she asks. “What about it?”

The criminal in front of her doesn’t miss a beat before answering. “That of course, of all the people you have brought with you, it would be you who arrested me,  _ agent _ .”

Betty registers the beginnings of the chuckle that is about to tumble off his lips, but the sound doesn’t reach her ears, at least not fully. Instead, it is this wave of white noise, of this intense buzz that drowns out everything else. She is not quite sure what is happening, but her gun is no longer aiming at the criminal in front of her, but rather at the ground, her arms slumping down with a tremble. And her heart -  _ oh, her heart _ \- she is afraid it might burst from the onslaught of the opposing feelings; a part of her screaming at her to lift the gun back up and  _ fucking _ fire, another part of her begging her to throw herself into his embrace, and another part, whispering that she should get out of there, run away from this situation that stinks with compromisation, betrayal and heartache.

But then, he pulls his mask down and as Betty’s eyes finally land on his face, all of that screaming and begging gets drowned out, replaced by a peaceful silence.

She stares at him, for what feels like an eternity, not blinking or moving, fearful even the smallest of movements might disrupt this fatamorgana in front of her - because, that’s what it has to be. A mirage, a play of light, as there is no way Jughead Jones is actually standing in front of her, flesh and bones.

However, her mind has never before been able to conjure such a perfect image of him, which can only mean one thing - he really is here.

And, somehow, that’s even more terrifying than this being just a hallucination. 

She shakes her head, the words already forming at the tip of her tongue, the urgent plea trying to break out. “What are you still doing, standing here? Go!” 

Jughead’s eyes pierce her before he shakes his head as well, the motion slow and light, as if he himself was terrified of disrupting this precious moment. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can!” Betty argues immediately. “Just get the fuck out of here before I’ll be forced to do something both of us will regret.” The words spill out of her mouth, begging and pleading, but her throat tightens up, all the way to the point it almost closes, succumbing under the heavy knowledge of what inevitably needs to happen.  _ Screw inevitability, _ she thinks,  _ screw all of this. _

But Jughead just chuckles and Betty curses him that even in a situation like this, the sound of his voice soothes her, extinguishing the rage burning inside of her.

“C’mon, love,” he says softly and Betty’s heart jumps and leaps, filling up with hope and ache at the same time. “You know what needs to be done.”

Betty can’t find the strength to answer that, so she just stares at him - stares until his blinks start dragging instead of rushing, stares until she is able to make out the tiny moles that litter his cheeks, stares until her breathing synchronises with his. She stares, until it doesn’t even feel like staring anymore, but just  _ feels _ \- intense, all-consuming, crushing. 

_ It is that inevitability, that heaviness of what needs to be done _ , she supposes.  _ It must be that, right? _

Jughead clears his throat. “There isn’t any other option,” he whispers softly, though to Betty, his voice feels sharp and cutting, like he might as well have screamed the sentence. It sets something off in her, making her blood boil with anger -  _ why are you giving up? Fight for your freedom! _

_ (Fight for us!) _

She shakes her head. “There always is another option!” she argues. “Just leave! Nobody needs to know you were here.”

Betty’s gaze doesn’t move from Jughead’s as he takes steps towards her, afraid to break their precious eye-contact, afraid that he might vanish from underneath her fingertips.

Her heart barely beats anymore, the time ceasing to exist in the bubble the two of them have created; a confined space where the reality can’t reach them for the time being, where no laws or obligations exist, where no looming future hangs over their necks. Where everything feels possible; it feels possible to breathe, to relax, to feel.

So, she lets herself do just that - feel. Every thought about Jughead that has ever crossed her mind - the good and the bad, the heart-clutching and the heart-wrenching - everything she has ever pushed back and locked away, she lets all of it rush back. Emotions breaking out of their cages, shaking off the dust, simmering to the surface. She lets them all pick and pull on her skin, trying their best to get a reaction out of her.

And she wants to -  _ oh _ , how desperately she wants to - she wants to scream and shout, she wants to grab and squeeze Jughead’s shoulders in her hands, until her knuckles would turn white and his skin pink, she wants to pull him forward and crash their lips together, until neither of them would know where the other person ended and they began. She wants, wants,  _ wants _ .

It is right then, almost as if he has somehow been privy to her thoughts all along, that Jughead’s eyes slip down and catch on her lips - and she is just a human, so she tries not to blame herself when her eyes do the same. 

She is mesmerised, completely and utterly - time and space no longer feel like real concepts, but rather like a fiction; and how could they carry any weight, any importance, when she is staring at  _ God _ himself? When there are mere inches of space separating them, when it would take so little to touch him?

The air moves, purposeful and yet, gentle, and it almost sounds as if the wind has whispered her name, luring her, calling her forward.  _ Close your eyes and let yourself fall, do not fear, love. _

She listens, her eyelids heavy as they fall down, a shiver full of anticipation running through her body, from the tips of her toes all the way to her lips, where it transforms into words, into a desperate plea: “Kiss me.”

Betty’s eyes remain closed and yet, she can almost sense the way Jughead’s entire body freezes; it probably has something to do with the way air gets stuck in his throat. Or maybe, she has just always been good at reading people, at knowing what they are thinking without needing to ask. She thinks about opening her eyes and searching for his; searching for an answer to her invitation, searching for an explanation of the evident declination. But she doesn’t; because, what if he took this as an opportunity to run away, to get out of this mess? What if she opened her eyes to a cold and empty hallway, a mirror image of her heart? What if-

A breath of air tingles her on the cheek, dancing along her skin and just like that, she forgets all about the predicament they are currently in, the horrors that await them once this bubble of theirs pops. For a moment, she lets herself imagine and dream of a future full of soft moments like these and where none of them will leave her with a bitter aftertaste on her tongue.

Jughead’s lips graze her cheek as they move. “I can’t.”

Betty is full of emotions she has been repressing for far too long, almost to the point where her heart is mere seconds from bursting, but still, it screams at her -  _ more, more, get more! _ She listens, obeying without a question as she stands a bit straighter, pushing herself onto her tiptoes, leaning into the gentle touch of Jughead’s lips. They feel warm and soft and like every dream she has ever dreamt; and even though they are pressed right against her cheek, they still feel unattainably far.

“Not yet,” Jughead murmurs. The words send ripples through her, until they reach every single cell of her body. They move in unison, almost like man-made waves that originate on the spot Jughead’s lips have just grazed. Her entire body tingles, the barely tangible ebb and flow constantly pushing and pulling.

It pushes at her eyelids, pushes until a solitary tear escapes from underneath, rolling down her cheek. It leaves a wet trail behind, but does not reach the end of her jaw, rather pooling in the middle of her cheek, latching onto Jughead’s lips.

It pushes at her mind, her mind that is simultaneously a raging mess and a peaceful desert; torn between what is right and what her heart desires. 

It pushes at her heart, just as Jughead takes a step back and his lips detach from her cheek, and as the place that felt like it has been on fire now feels icy cold, the warm softness replaced by a cool draft.

And then, it pulls back, all at once, and her heart surely breaks a little with that snap.

The distance hits her like a ton of bricks; it almost feels like Jughead has taken all of the air with him, leaving her gasping for oxygen, leaving her to suffocate without his presence. Her chest contracts and her throat tightens; her thoughts spin and stomach turns. 

There’s this ache in her heart, one that has been residing in the corners of its chambers ever since the first flame of feelings for Jughead has sparked inside of her, only now, it feels amplified by dozens. It is no longer confined to her chest, but rather bounces off the marble floor and the high ceiling, echoing in the empty hallway. It tries to get away from her and then immediately, comes running back, hitting her in all of its intensity and pressure.

The worst thing is, that a part of Betty knew this was going to happen; that she would get too close to the sun, even if she tries her hardest to stay away, that she would get burned if she wasn’t careful. And here she is, broken and burned, but strangely enough - if she overlooks the all-consuming ache, this longing for something that could have been, this nostalgia over something that never was - all that is left is this strange feeling of…  _ Hopefulness _ .

The word feels weird in her mind, foreign almost; she can’t remember the last time she has felt like this. She supposes that it stems from the fact that this must be the rock-bottom - there isn’t anywhere lower to fall, there isn’t more pain to be bestowed upon her. This moment, standing in front of the man she has somehow came to love, and about to do what she was supposed to do ever since she has received his file for the first time, there’s this sureness in her; this certainty that this is it - that from now on, things are going to get better.

Betty has no idea where that sentiment comes from, whether it is just wishful thinking or a sign from the universe, but it is enough to pull a corner of her lips up, it is enough to keep a flame of hope alive inside her heart.

She desperately wants to burn everything about the way Jughead looks into her memory; there is no mask or pretense, just him and all of his emotions displayed in a plain sight. It is almost as if he was offering them to her, saying -  _ take them, take all of it, just like you did with my heart _ \- and Betty couldn’t say  _ no _ even if she wanted to. She soaks them up, embracing his bitter heartbreak with her own, his uncertainty of the future with her newfound hopefulness. 

Jughead lifts his wrists up and waits. The air around them feels heavy, saturated with raw emotions, a silence so dire that Betty is desperate to break it.

“Why?” A single word, a simple question falls from her lips, but it merely scratches the tension. It is quite possible that not even her most desperate shouts could shatter it. Perhaps, the only thing that could, would be Jughead’s voice, carrying the answer to her question.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, he nudges at her hand, pushing it to her side, until it hits the spot where her handcuffs are hanging in their case. Betty is pretty sure her fingers are trembling as she takes them out, but her mind is unable to focus, completely distracted by how close Jughead’s hand is to hers, by how easy and simple it would be to just take it and hold it.

Or maybe, it would not be that simple - because nothing about the two of them ever is - but, for a moment, she lets herself dream. She lets her mind wonder and imagine that instead of tightening the cold metal around his wrists, the handcuffs are replaced by a soft thread. That as the teeth click mechanically against each other, her fingers gently tie a knot, a promise. That the meaning behind the action isn’t maleficent or evil, but more of a gentle whisper, of honest promise she will not leave unfulfilled;  _ she is going to get him out of this _ .

That sentence sticks in her brain, playing on repeat as she takes him through the long hallways of the building towards the exit, as her fingers curl around his wrist, latching desperately onto the tiny piece of his skin where his glove and sleeve meet. She feels like a thief; stealing a little touch, a little piece of him for herself, giving into the pleadings of her heart. 

If Jughead’s feelings after every heist are even the tiniest bit similar to what she is feeling now - to the careful joy that fills her heart, to the bubbling excitement that fills her veins, to the hopefulness that fills her bones - then, she understands. She understands the thrill of the secrecy, of stealing something for himself. 

And that small touch, it also makes her understand why he would be willing to give all of it up; if that thrill is the price one needs to pay in exchange for love, only a real fool would decline.

Betty is no fool and Jughead isn’t either and she is going to make sure that he hasn’t thrown his life away for nothing.

  
  


**_2_ **

If anybody asked Jughead a year ago where he saw himself in a year’s time, his answer would probably be accompanied by a smirk and sound something like  _ on the top of the world  _ or _ finally free _ . Definitely not laying flat on a springy mattress, surrounded by three walls of white bricks and one of iron bars; a place that most would describe as  _ hitting a rock bottom _ , or, you know,  _ the furthest thing from freedom _ . And a part of Jughead understands those sentiments, he really does - though a bigger part of him still prefers this form containment over the one his parents forced upon him. 

A soft smile hangs on his lips as the door opens and shuts somewhere in the distance, a loud thud echoing through the long corridor. The sound carries; a soft tremble of the air. It passes by the back of Jughead’s neck, soft hairs moving along with the wave.

He wants to ignore this sudden intrusion and just close his eyes as he’d slip out of the reality and into his thoughts, into the dreams full of green kaleidoscopes; of gentle fires that do not burn but soothe; of colours mixing together on a canvas and immortalising that after which his heart longs.

But when somebody clears his throat in front of his cell, he reluctantly packs all of that into a small drawer inside his heart, where it will stay safe until he can peacefully return to it. He sits up and opens his eyes and for a second, his vision darkens and blurs, his body not handling the sudden movement well after spending hours in a horizontal position.

However, as his sight clears, his mind does not stop spinning, only the reason changes - he wants to blink, to make sure he isn’t imagining things, but then, he also doesn’t. He doesn’t want the image of Betty to dissolve in front of his eyes, he doesn’t want the pain and ache that would accompany it.

Her lips move, but Jughead doesn’t hear a word over the white noise pulsating in the back of his mind - a constant, ever-present force. He holds onto it, grounding his reeling mind and beating heart, feeling the rawness that comes with the energy. In a way, it is soothing and he loses himself in the sensation of not feeling for a moment, only to come out of it confused and bleary-eyed.

And Betty, his agent, the light of his life, still standing in front of his cell, the only clear thing in his hazy focus.

“You’re real,” Jughead gasps before he has a chance to think twice. With that observation, he is on his feet, just a couple quick strides taking him from his bed to the iron bars, his body coming to a stop only a few feet away from hers.

Betty laughs, with a soft and amused shake to her head, and suddenly, Jughead doesn’t regret the slip up that much, not when it has drawn out such a pretty sound. But then, Betty purses her lips together and the ringing sound is gone as fast as it appeared, silence quickly filling the void it has left behind.

“Of course that I’m real,” Betty confirms slowly. “Do you have a minute?” she asks then.

This time, it is Jughead’s turn to chuckle with amusement; he straightens up and waves his hand in front of himself. “It’s not like I’ve got much to do here.” 

He lets his eyes scan her entire body, from head to toe, taking in all of the small details like the few rebellious hair strands that had escaped from her smooth ponytail, like the uneasiness and tension that had seemingly settled on her shoulders, like the slight tremble of her leg, her foot tapping ever-so-lightly against the linoleum floor. If the furrow of her brow, the purse of her lips, the uncertainty of her eyes are anything to go by, it is clear that something heavy is weighing her mind down. 

Jughead can’t help but wonder if he has something to do with it. 

(He probably has.) 

“What’s wrong? Talk to me,” he asks. He leans against the bars, his arms hanging out on the other side and his head dips lower, in an attempt to find an angle that would allow him to catch Betty’s eyes, to bring her out of her shell.

A scoff escapes from her lips, sounding a lot like a mix of anger and despair. It makes Jughead pause and reconsider his position - is it really the smartest to be here like this? And he doesn’t only mean physically, but mentally as well - is it wise to be open and vulnerable like this?

He doesn’t get a chance to go down that particular rabbit hole though, as Betty straightens in front of him. “You wanna know what’s wrong?” she asks. There’s a tremble to her voice, but she isn’t screaming; there’s a certainty to it as well, although her eyes tell a different story.

“Please, tell me,” Jughead says, pleads.  _ Please, tell me, so I can fix it. _

“What’s wrong is that you let me arrest you,” Betty sighs heavily. “Why would you do something so stupid and reckless?”

Her tone is stern and serious, making Jughead pause as he takes in her words. He wonders, whether they have just slipped from Betty’s tongue carelessly, or whether she had put thought into them, picking each one carefully. Whether  _ let me arrest you _ is different from  _ getting arrested _ , whether the barely noticeable worry that accompanies the adjectives she uses to describe his behaviour is there on purpose. He wonders and wonders, his mind nitpicking and brain overthinking, slowly driving himself insane.

There are so many things he wants to say; litanies of explanations are flowing through his veins, his beating heart pushing them to every inch of his body, trying to break them free. If he could speak the words, he would; an apology would tumble off his lips, profound and deep; for putting her through all of this, for ghosting her from the date he asked her on,  _ for being born into his own family _ . If he could touch her, he would; his hands would find hers and hold them, silently comparing whose fingers are more rugged along the edges, finding the perfect way to fit their imperfections together. If he could do anything, he would; without a second of doubt, without a single hesitation. 

But his heart remains heavy as his head drops down; he can’t, at least not yet. Not while there is still this, both metaphorical and literal, wall between them, not while there is still a risk of Betty getting dragged into his mess.

“If I told you it wasn’t stupid, would you believe me?” Jughead asks softly, tilting his head to the side. His forehead meets a cold iron bar, and he leans into the metal, letting the coolness ground him.

Betty scoffs lightly. “Yeah, right.”

_ You shouldn’t tell her, don’t do it _ , a tiny voice in his head begs, but it quickly gets crushed by the overwhelming need to do something, to find a way to ease Betty’s suffering. “You’ve got to trust me - if I had any other option, I would have taken it, without a blink of an eye, my dear.”

Betty slowly drags her eyes up until they find Jughead’s, where they dig in, and make Jughead feel transparent, as if his flesh and bones were nothing more than a thin glass, holding his soul in one place. “I do,” Betty whispers then, the words seamlessly crossing his skin and seeping into his body. “Trust you,” she adds then, her voice an impossibly soft whisper, the admission a beautiful song.

And Jughead’s heart sings along to its tune, spins and turns in his chest, as all of his walls melt. The honesty in Betty’s voice is undeniable and Jughead searches for a way to return the act, to pay her back for this incredible gift.

Ultimately, only two things come into his mind, the first one without any prompt or musing, but he bites that thought down instantly. It’s heavy and hard to swallow, but he knows better than to speak those words now; this is no place or time fit for such a deep declaration.

So, he settles on the second option. “And I trust you,” he says simply, hoping to achieve the same rawness and honesty as she has, hoping for the words to carry the same power and appreciation.

And they must, because Betty’s shoulders drop down, her posture relaxing gently. Her breathing becomes softer and calmer and almost as an after-effect, so does Jughead’s.

Betty stays silent for a while and Jughead is in no hurry to open his mouth, too afraid of the secrets that might start spilling off his lips had he done that. Instead, he watches Betty intently, categorising every smallest detail about her, burning the image into his memory.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” she whispers at the end, her gentle voice breaking the silence. The corners of Jughead’s lips tug up, as if his mind has hooked a strand of happiness to them and pulled up, or maybe, as if his lips have grown a mind of their own. Either way, he isn’t in control and yet, he doesn’t really mind.

“ _ Agent _ ,” Jughead says, his voice sounding too sweet for his own ears.  _ Were you worried about me? _ he wants to ask, but doesn’t, not quite sure whether his heart would be able to withstand the answer, whatever it would be.

Betty waits for the rest of his sentence, her gaze glued to him, piercing him with intent. And it feels like hours pass, even though it is just seconds before Betty eventually breaks their eye contact - however, it is not with a sigh of disappointment nor with an angry scowl. Instead, this flash of excitement lights up on Betty’s face and before Jughead can attempt to figure out what it was, she drops her gaze to her purse, quickly rummaging through it. After a while, she pulls out a tiny box and offers it to Jughead.

He looks at her suspiciously, his eyes jumping between hers and the box. The neon lights overhead reflect off the box in all directions, and  _ oh, _ Jughead realises,  _ the box is gift-wrapped.  _ His heartbeat picks up at speed as his fingers wrap tightly around the smooth material.

“What’s this?” he asks, shaking the box lightly in his hand.

Betty shrugs and if Jughead didn’t know better, he would think that the colour of her cheeks deepens, switching from a healthy pink to a gentle maroon. “Just a little something,” she says, innocently and softly, almost as if she was ashamed, “you don’t have to open it right now.”

Jughead raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to?”

Betty’s eyes are still fixed on the box and his question does very little to help drag them up.

A few seconds pass before Betty’s lips part open and Jughead leans closer, eager to pick up on anything that might fall out of them; whether it’s going to be words or just an empty breath, he doesn’t care; he has been starving long enough, his heart desperately craving anything Betty can offer him. 

Unfortunately, whatever Betty wanted to say gets drowned out by the sharp vibrations of her phone. She fishes it out of her pocket and spares one quick gaze towards the screen before meeting Jughead’s, her eyes holding an apology.

He pushes his body away from the bars, away from her. The space between them stretches and Jughead’s heart lingers in there, caught somewhere in the middle - a battle between doing the right thing and letting her go and being a little bit selfish, begging her to ignore the call and stay, stealing a bit more of her time just for himself. Deep down, he already knows which side will emerge victorious. 

“Go,” he says simply and braces for the impact of his heart snapping back to his chest.

Their eyes stay interlocked for a couple more seconds and there are more words clawing in the back of Jughead’s throat - apologetic, explanatory, thankful - all of them mixing together, creating a bulge that’s impossible to swallow. He is sure his lips have been drained of all colour from the way he purses them together tightly, not willing to risk anything slipping.

She nods, gently and gracefully, like all things she does, but the hesitation persists. It lingers to the edges of her body, it latches onto her thumb, hovering over the accept icon on the screen.

And Jughead hates seeing that; he hates seeing that uncertainty and uneasiness and even though he  _ knows _ it is not his job to solve every single problem that flashes through Betty’s mind, he still is going to offer a helping hand. 

So, he does his best to relax his jaw and opens his mouth. “Thank you,” he breathes out, the words coming to him with an indescribable ease. They feel smooth, as the bristles on a new paintbrush and Jughead can’t help but wonder why he was holding back, why he was not letting them out. “For checking in on me,” he adds then, a soft smile accompanying the confession.  _ For being here for me, _ he almost adds, but somehow, it does not feel appropriate.

However, it seems to be enough to put Betty to ease; her smile grows more genuine and gaze softens. “Of course,” she hums, as if it was the most banal thing ever.

Jughead’s heart warms up and that fire carries on burning even as Betty finally answers her phone and quickly walks away, her voice fading into distance. With his eyes closed and a foreign sense of comfort and content settled over him, one that a person in a jail probably should not be feeling, he drops down on the bed, his hands plopping down on his thighs. The gift-wrapped box hits his leg and the place where the two meet hurts a little, though the soft burn does not spawn from pain, but rather anticipation.

He carefully turns it around in his hands a couple of times, cautiously examining how the light reflects off the wrapping paper, feeling its smooth texture under his fingers. He shakes it gently, but nothing moves, no sound escapes from the inside.

He is curious, there is no arguing about that and he could satiate that burning desire very quickly; just a small rip right along the edge would be enough to reveal the secret. However, something about savouring this moment excites him; about cataloguing every single detail into his heart, about jotting down the feelings that simmer inside of his chest carefully.

Today, there will be no tearing or ripping, he decides as his fingers locate a small piece of tape, unpeeling it gently; from now on, there will be just tenderness and care. He repeats that to himself as a mantra while his fingers slowly unpack the paper, handling the gift with the same care as he would use while handling the most valuable pieces of art.

The paper wrinkles and ruffles underneath his fingers as he peels it away; and once it is completely gone and his eyes fix on what’s underneath, he loses his breath, but its absence goes unnoticed.

It goes unnoticed, because there is not a single cell of his body that is not pulsating with pure joy, excitement and gratitude. He takes in the contents of the box hungrily; his thumb running down the plastic box that holds six perfectly sharpened pencils, the leather cover of the notebook sinking deep into his palm, the rich-feeling material making his head feel dizzy. He opens it, the spine creeking slightly and the new-book-smell hitting his nose. However, this is no book, as the pages are completely blank, save for the first one.

The blue ink stands out on the background of yellowish paper, reminding him of an ocean curling around a beach; the twirly cursive handwriting almost wave-like. 

_ In a room full of art, _ _  
_ _ I’d still stare at you. _ _  
_ _ x _

He traces his fingers against the letters, feeling the gentle dent the pen has left behind in the paper; he closes his eyes and soaks that in, the dent, the texture, the dedication,  _ the thought. _

His heart is beating so hard that his whole body shakes to its rhythm, trembling with each beat. He isn’t afraid it might burst anymore; kept safe by the knowledge that it would not shatter like a glass, nor create dozens of iron shrapnels that’d make him bleed; but that it would rather be flowers that would bloom from it, or a warm golden glow of a sunrise, or perhaps a gentle ocean wave caressing his feet as he’d walk by a beach. 

Deep down, he knows that this is it; this is the feeling he has been searching for his entire life, one of utter peace and content. He brings the notebook towards his chest, pressing it as close to his heart as possible and holding it there, letting the blank pages get to know him, because right now, in this moment, he is the most honest version of himself - all of his feelings and emotions right there, blossoming from the centre of his chest.

And then, he pulls the notebook away, hiding the dedication away as he locates a blank page, an empty canvas; without moving his gaze away, his pops the plastic box open and picks out a pencil; and then, the world falls completely silent except for the sound of a graphite pencil tip grazing across a paper, the most beautiful melody to his ears, to his heart.

  
  


**_3_ **

There’s a cup of coffee placed in the middle of an otherwise empty table; it is steaming hot, full to the rim and untouched. Jughead knows it is for him, even though the officer that has brought it didn’t bother to talk to him (apart from the very condescending look that she has sent in his direction). 

Don’t get him wrong, he would gladly have drunk the coffee - if only plain black coffee didn’t make his stomach retch and want to do at least three somersaults. He will never understand how people can drink something so disgusting. Hell, he has been asking Sweet Pea that question basically ever since he has met him and so far, the only answers he has collected so far are:  _ because it is as dark and bitter as my soul _ and  _ because it is as dark and bitter as my heart _ . So, not a lot to go on from there.

He is pulled from his deep (and dark - almost like that cup of coffee) thoughts with the sound of the door opening and shutting. He knows he shouldn’t be getting his hopes up, but he can’t stop himself from snapping his head to the side, praying for the person who has just entered to be sporting a blonde ponytail, the most stunning green eyes and a determined expression.

Sadly, his wish doesn’t get fulfilled and that reality makes him sink a bit lower in his chair.

The man that has entered the room looks vaguely familiar, but no matter how deep in his memory Jughead reaches, he can’t recall where he has seen his face. But that doesn’t stop him from staring, hoping that sooner or later, the realisation might hit him.

In the meanwhile, the agent seats himself across the table from Jughead and places a pile of files he has brought next to the cup of coffee. Jughead’s eyes barely glaze over the depressingly-looking pile of beige, much more interested in the man across the table.

“Forsythe Pendleton the Third. Or do you prefer Jughead Jones?” the man starts, opening the first file. However, he doesn’t lift his eyes, nor waits for an answer before starting to read. “The son of FP and Gladys Jones, leaders of the most notorious gang in New York, the Serpents. Did you know that the Serpent are either directly responsible for or indirectly connected to more than 35% of the crime that happens in our city?”

Jughead just keeps staring at him, offering no answer, which doesn’t really seem to bother the agent. Apparently, he has decided that this conversation would be less of an interesting dialogue and more like a monologue of pointless facts, and well, Jughead isn’t going to try to change his mind. “That’s every third crime. Petty theft, serious scams, import of illegal guns, distribution of drugs, they all make the list. Do I need to continue?”

Jughead raises his eyebrow at the man. What’s it with all those rhetorical questions and pregnant pauses that aren’t quite long enough to force Jughead into feeling uncomfortable enough to want to answer?

And why is he even telling him this? Jughead is fully aware of the scope of his parents’ operation and dare he say, probably to a greater extent than this man will ever be. Also, why is he talking about his parents at all? As if Jughead hasn’t had enough of that; his entire life, all of his decisions were, to some extent, influenced by who his parents are. The shadow of their legacy looming over everything he did, their tainted fingers smearing and staining anything he tried to create for himself. Even this - his arrest, his criminal life, his trial - is made about his parents.

Anger grows inside of him; simmering in his veins, slowly pushing his blood to the boiling level.

He should probably try to calm down, since he is pretty sure that an angry explosion would do no good to his case; but he can’t help himself. 

“And that is not even the worst of it all -” the man starts again, but gets interrupted by a knock on the door. 

Like a complete fool, Jughead feels another surge of hope rush through his body, but when the door opens, once again, the person on the other side is not Betty Cooper. Instead, the officer that has brought him coffee enters the interrogation room. “Mr. Jones’ lawyer has arrived.”

Jughead likes to pretend that he is super alright and cool with everything that is happening and that nothing about this situation terrifies him - not the prospect of going to prison (for real, not just the small cell at the Bureau he is currently occupying), not the very real possibility of never seeing his friends again, not the heartbreak that haunts his dreams - but still, breathing becomes a bit easier as those words reach his ears. He leans back in his chair and as his shoulders slouch down, a cheeky grin spreads across his lips.

The agent stands up with a sigh, picks up his files and heads to the door. He exits the interrogation room before Jughead’s lawyer enters - and Jughead doesn’t think he has ever been so happy to see Sweet Pea’s angry scowl.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” the officer says as she presses a couple of buttons on the wall. She punches something into the panel by the door and with a poignant beep, the red light on the camera in a corner of the room goes off. The officer nods lightly before slipping out of the door.

The room is enveloped in silence - Pea is still standing by the entrance, looking just as furious as he did when he entered and Jughead is pretty sure that unlike his friend, there still is a wide smile decorating his own face.

“C’mon, aren’t you happy to see me?” Jughead asks, hoping to get some sort of reaction out of his best friend.

But even after his question, Sweet Pea’s face stays stone cold. It is just his head that shakes from side-to-side in disbelief as he crosses the room. He drops down to the chair next to him with a resigned sigh. “I’m so fucking mad at you,” he mumbles as he runs his hands across his face, a move that radiates with despair. Jughead takes in his friend’s appearance - the dark circles under his eyes, the I-am-trying-my-best hairstyle, the tension in his jaw - and comes to a conclusion that Sweet Pea probably doesn’t need to hear how bad he looks, because he almost certainly knows it.

“Not the reaction I was hoping for, but alright, I can work with that,” Jughead says instead. “So, why are you angry with me?”

If looks could kill, Jughead would be dead long before Pea’s eyes could even land on him; he isn’t just staring daggers, more like machine guns. 

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know,” Pea says. His voice is grave and if it came from anybody else, Jughead would probably be scared out of his mind. But this is his best friend and he has seen all of his soft and mushy parts - this scary front he puts up just doesn’t fool him.

“I have an idea or two,” Jughead admits with a shrug.

“Oh, so you have an idea or two,” Sweet Pea repeats, the words laced with disbelief. “Okay, how about the fact that you’ve gotten _fucking_ arrested? Or, that instead of asking us, your best friends who also happen to be, you know, _criminals,_ -” he whispers the word, as if saying it out loud could somehow make it more real than it already is, “- for help, you went to the FBI? Or, I don’t know, that after all we’ve been through, you gave into your parents’ games? Have the last years been just a joke to you or what? Do you have a death wish? Are you tired of freedom? Because, you’re on the right path to losing it.”

Jughead stares at his friend blankly, blinking slowly as his harsh words find their way under his skin. For a moment, he is back in his old apartment, the one he has moved into after coming back to New York, still all young and naïve, thinking that the ocean was going to be vast enough to separate him from a life of crime. He is back there, in his kitchen, surrounded by piles of schemes and plans and research, desperate to figure out a way out of this mess - and although his best friend might carry a look of disapproval and successfully manages to point out just how irresponsible Jughead is being, he still is there, unspoken support hidden between his angry words. The two scenes blend and mix in front of his eyes and after a while, Jughead is no longer sure he sees a difference.

“I get that you’re angry, but it’s not like I had any other option,” Jughead says slowly. 

He couldn’t just not go with his parents; he couldn’t risk putting Betty into jeopardy, he couldn’t risk her career and life getting wrecked as a consequence of his foolish feelings. He couldn’t just say no to his parents, he couldn’t just try to run away from them - he is well-aware of the lengths they are willing to go to in order to get to him - they would have never stopped until he either agreed to join them or until they destroyed everything he ever held dear, erasing all meaning from his life, cutting away everything that kept him grounded. He couldn’t get away from them on his own; he needed an external force to tear him out, to make his escape not look like an escape, but rather as an unfortunate accident that his parents couldn’t just reverse by snapping their fingers. It might sound crazy - hell, he certainly laughed a lot at the idea when he first came up with it - but getting caught really was the only way to ensure his freedom.

Sweet Pea sighs and runs his fingers through his hair once again. “I know. I’m just glad you’re okay,” he mumbles and Jughead’s heart grows a bit lighter instantly. “We were worried about you,” he adds.

The admission is barely audible, but Jughead still manages to catch it. His heart swells up in his chest and was it not for the handcuffs around his wrists, he would definitely have pulled his friend into a bone-crushing hug. “I’m sorry,” he says, praying that he somehow manages to translate the warmth from his heart into sincerity in his voice.

“There’ll be time for apologies once you are out of this mess,” Pea says as he opens his bag and starts pulling up files.

Another warm feeling swells up in Jughead’s chest and this time, he doesn’t struggle with naming it - pride. There were plenty of people he could have called to defend him - after moving in the criminal circles for a while, one would eventually acquire a rather extensive list of contacts and the knowledge that provided a large enough sum of money, he could have any of them come and defend his guilty-ass in an instant. But just thinking about that, this weird, traitorous feeling of guilt always settles in the pit of his stomach; leaving him feeling all dirty and sour. To be defended by the same people his parents turn to almost feels like an admission of guilt; it stands against everything he has ever believed and fought for. 

So what if Pea hasn’t been to a law school? So what if he doesn’t have years of experience under his belt and a success ratio to boast about? Jughead doesn’t care about any of that - it is his drive, his passion that Jughead believes in; it is the hope that his best friend is really going to do everything in his power to keep him from going to the prison. (Plus, something tells him that a certain agent would stop this from happening if she thought it was too bad of an idea.)

And by the looks of it, by the amount of papers and documents Pea has put together at basically minutes notice, he knows that he had made the right call. There’s a soft smile lingering on his lips as he listens to Sweet Pea explaining the details of the situation to him and proposing various ideas on how to deal with it, there’s a blatant and unconditional trust in Jughead’s words as he says: “Do whatever you think is going to work.”

He lets Pea talk him through the files he has brought, filled with bank statements, showing all money he had ‘earned’ being transferred to the various accounts owned by his parents, every shred of evidence against the Serpents they’ve compiled throughout the years, and of course, the golden pot - a pair of contracts: the first one, signed by his parents and him, covering the amount of money he still needed to pay back after his return to New York, and the second one, signed by his parents and a person he had later learnt to be Hiram Lodge, because of course that his parents were in a bed with the only bigger criminal of New York City than themselves all along.

Their fifteen minutes alone fly by faster than either of them has a chance to comprehend and so, instead of having a chance to fade away naturally, their conversation is abruptly interrupted by doors swinging open. In fact, it is so sudden that Jughead doesn’t even have a proper chance to get his hopes up and look up expectantly, his eyes eagerly searching for the blonde ponytail. 

He supposes it is because of that, that when his head eventually actually turns to the door, air gets stuck in his throat and his whole world spins and tilts a little. His eyes get glued on Betty and his heart is about to burst, filled with tiny sparks of happiness. Her name hangs on his lips, almost surpassing all of his walls and common sense, almost escaping out, riding a wave of relief and affection.

He is vaguely aware of the fact that he is staring at her, but he can’t bring himself to stop. And how could he, when there are so many small details about her he has yet to discover? Like the way her ponytail bounces and twirls when she walks, swaying behind her gracefully? Like the way colorful post-it notes stick out of the folder she is carrying, definitely organised according to a very smart and meticulous system? Like the way her deep green blazer brings out the colour of her eyes in the most hypnotising way? Or like her expression softens for a millisecond when their eyes meet, like she lets him slip past her walls and defences, before reverting her gaze and steeling back up?

It is only when somebody - presumably Sweet Pea - kicks him under the table that he finally snaps out of his trance and forces his eyes to move away from Betty. It takes him another moment to notice that she has not come alone, but she is joined by the agent who has started to  _ interrogate  _ him before, and that they aren’t standing by the door anymore, but already sitting down across the table from him and Pea.

The room is enveloped in silence and since Jughead definitely isn’t going to be the one to break it, he just casually leans back in his chair and lets his eyes roam around the room for a bit. But his cup of self-control runs out pretty quickly and before he knows it, his eyes are glued on Betty once again, drinking in everything about her, as if his entire body has been drained, as if he has been parched his entire life. As if the simple act of being in the same room as her, sharing space, was enough to save him, to stop him from going insane.

Something about Betty’s face changes; there’s this little wrinkle squeezed between her eyebrows and as she licks her lips, Jughead can practically feel the determination that’s flying off of her. The energy she radiates is almost palpable, molding the air around them, pulling Jughead to sit a bit straighter and to lean a bit closer, his whole body slowly starting to buzz with the expectation of hearing her voice.

“Alright, so, here is the deal,” she begins slowly, her eyes glued to the files that she has brought. She pushes a couple of pages from them towards Sweet Pea who reluctantly picks them up. Her eyes follow the papers, not once sliding off. “There’s enough stuff in there to put Jughead away for a long time,” she continues, but her voice fades away again, and Jughead can’t help but think there’s something incredibly raw about her tone. He dares to steal a quick peek at the other agent and then at Sweet Pea, wondering if the two of them can hear it as well, if they can sense the tiniest changes in the way she speaks; but he comes out empty-handed, both of their expressions stone cold. Is it just him who can see behind Betty’s carefully crafted mask, who can pick up on the subtle tremble of her lip and a gaze too stern to not be hiding anything?

“I’m sensing a but,” Sweet Pea says, placing the file down. Jughead steals a quick peek at the paper, but as soon as he catches the number of years he would have to serve for the first crime on the rather extensive list, he decides to not torture himself and rather averts his gaze. He believes that his friend will prevent it from becoming reality. Instead, he slides his eyes back to Betty, just in time to see her catch her lower lip between her teeth, just in time to see her shoulders fall down with a readying breath.

“But,” she hums, nodding lightly, “even though bringing Jughead in would definitely make the Bureau look great in the public’s eye, there is something that would be even more beneficial -” she says and lets her eyes slip to Jughead, holding his gaze as she finishes, “- for all parties involved.”

Their eye contact lasts and with each passing second, Jughead’s heart soars higher and higher. He doesn’t need anybody to spell out the meaning behind Betty’s words, the meaning behind her tone or her gaze. The unsaid promise lingers in the air, dances along the nape of Jughead’s neck, tingles his senses. 

And the words want to get out of him, desperate to be set free; Jughead feels them, he can practically taste the “ _ anything” _ on his tongue, so delightfully sweet.  _ Anything you need, my dear, you’ve got it _ , he thinks,  _ just ask _ .

There isn’t a thing Betty could ask right now that Jughead would refuse, there’s no deal she could offer him that he would need to think even once about, there’s nothing,  _ nothing _ , in the entire universe, that he would refuse. For the promise of freedom, freedom they could hopefully spend together. Jughead’s heart swells, growing at least three sizes bigger.

Without any prompting, his mind wanders to a memory from a few nights ago, a late night visit from Betty to his cell, when a similar feeling tried to bubble up to the surface. An admission of his feelings, everything he has been carrying around, tucked safely in the corner of his heart. The words are here once again, or perhaps have been here all along, never properly leaving the comfort of his mouth. His heart aches as his tongue grows heavy under their weight; he wishes he was allowed to swallow them, push them away for a bit longer, until all of this would be over. But they latch on, stick to his tongue like honey, so he keeps them there, safely hidden behind his closed mouth. (He hopes they’ll stick inside for long enough.)

“We’re listening,” Sweet Pea says, gesturing Betty to explain her grand plan.

Betty sits a bit straighter in her chair just as Jughead leans forward. His gaze is fixed on her mouth, ready to swallow anything that tumbles out from her perfectly pink lips. 

However, it is not her who speaks next.

“We’ve been building a case against both the Serpents and Hiram Lodge for years now,” the agent next to Betty says and there is a certain quickness to his voice, standing in opposition to the dragged monologue from before. “Depending on the extent of information you’d be able to provide us with, on your willingness to cooperate, the DA would certainly be able to figure out some sort of deal for you. But of course, as I mentioned-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence as a much sweeter voice cuts him off.

“Testify against your parents,” Betty says simply and there’s no way for Jughead to stop the corners of his mouth from turning upwards, from a wide grin spreading across his face. 

_ Oh, with pleasure. _

  
  


**_4_ **

There is something about the New York’s courthouse that makes it both indescribably majestic and deeply terrifying; the walls reaching up so high a person would be right to develop a fear of being swallowed by them, the corridors going on for forever and constantly branching out, a maze of heavy doors, glossy walls and empty benches. Polished marble, mahogany wood and tall windows cover every visible surface, the light-reflecting surfaces in a stark contrast to the all-absorbing darknesses. 

And there, inside that monstrously huge building, Betty can’t help but feel incredibly small as she stares at her own reflection at the wall, slightly deformed by the split between tiles, but still undeniably her.  _ Or is it?  _

How much can a person change, how much can their world-view alter, how much are they allowed to risk and still get to preserve their integrity, their sense of self? Lately, her heart has been heavier than usual, her mind constantly restless - is she still herself? Is she still in control or is she barely more than a passenger now, watching her life unfold through her own eyes, yet unable to mold it, to push it in the direction she has envisioned for herself all those years ago?

Her hand rises up, fingertips meeting the cold marble. They trace her outline, lazily dragging up from the chin, through the jawline, up and up. Her ponytail swirls in the reflection as she tilts her head to a side, her fingers missing her blonde waves and sliding across their reflection instead of around it, deviating from the neat waves. She drags her finger back with care and precision, stopping only once she reaches the spot where her ponytail comes to the view. She comes to that spot and holds, holds her finger, holds her thoughts, holds her breath.

She is used to a life on the knife’s edge, she is used to opposing forces trying to pull her apart. Her father murdered dozens of people and yet, he has never been cruel or aggressive towards her. The law has let her down, has failed to bring him to justice many times and yet, she still picked its enforcement as her profession. She has devoted her life to making sure criminals pay for their sins and yet… Here she is.

A heart wavering, a moral compass spinning.

_ Have I made the worst mistake of my life… _

_ … or was it the best decision ever? _

The needle spins, the north long abandoned in favour of something that’s more important. Something that has been there forever, something that has been blooming in her chest for the longest time. By the time it comes to a slow stop, there is no worry left in her heart as it is too full of determination, of courage. She’d describe it as a bubbling peacefulness, a bit contradictory and unexpected, but so, so right. 

“Betty, hey, there you are,” a voice echoes through the hallway, making Betty snap her head away from her reflection. It doesn’t take her long to locate Veronica, the sharp clicks of her heels against the marble floors a dead giveaway of her location.

Betty opens her mouth to greet her, but before she has a chance to say anything, Veronica is wrapping her arms around her, bringing their bodies together in a crushing hug. Betty’s jaw drops down and hangs open for a couple of seconds, before she snaps out of the shock, shutting her mouth and returning her friend’s embrace. Veronica’s body feels warm and inviting, radiating that unconditional support and love she always seems to carry around. And Betty is grateful, she really is, especially as she slowly comes to realise just how much she needed it. 

Past few weeks have been filled with gallons of coffee, with one sleepless night after another, most of them spent in Charles’ office as she helped him with the Serpents’ case, going through every piece of evidence he has collected over the years, while adding new details, pulled from Joaquin and Jughead’s testimonies. What used to be just pure speculations and guesses based on unreliable sources have now become solid leads, crystal clear proofs of criminal activity. The case, one that the FBI had been meticulously building for years, had almost doubled, in the amount of people involved, in the amount of evidence, in its sheer foundation.

But there was still one thing missing - you can’t put evidence behind bars. Having all the necessary paperwork, everything laid out all nice and clean was great, but there was a very little they could do unless they actually caught the guilty parties.

Thankfully, that problem had disappeared a couple of days ago, after one of Charles’ teams followed up on a lead provided by Jughead. If Betty was being honest, she didn’t think their chances of succeeding were very high - Jughead himself had said he was almost certain that after the FBI dropped on the Serpents robbing The Federal Reserve, his parents would be very careful with their next steps, cautiously reconsidering every plan they have made. Even though  _ a Serpent would never snitch _ , there is always going to be an underlying theme of mistrust among criminals, where every  _ never _ needs to be taken with a grain of salt. So, one can imagine Betty’s (and Jughead’s) surprise when Charles’ team returned to the Bureau with a bunch of handcuffed gang members, amongst whom they have found the infamous Forsythe Pendleton Jones II.

They didn’t manage to find Gladys and the word on the street was that she has been gone for quite a while now, even though not two of their informants were able to agree on the country she supposedly fled to. And even though Betty desperately wanted to track her down, hating the fact that they were leaving a loose end behind, fearful what Gladys could do to Jughead if she decided to return, Charles made some very good points about how if they didn’t go through with the case now, they would probably not get another shot like this again.

So, here they are, in the New York’s courthouse, surrounded by polished marble and deep mahogany wood, waiting as one of the biggest FBI’s cases comes to a close.

And Betty can’t help herself but feel a bit blue about that - not because a lot of bad people are being put behind the bars for a very long time - but because there is something strangely nostalgic about thinking back to how much of herself she gave to this case, how much she has changed since first receiving Jughead’s file. The prospect of change used to scare her a bit, but she likes the person she’s become, making the whole process feel a bit less terrifying. 

“How are you doing?” Veronica asks as she lets Betty out of her embrace, though her hands linger behind, thumbs gently rubbing circles into Betty’s upper arms.

_ Good _ , Betty wants to say, but the word doesn’t sit completely right on her tongue. Her anxiety overpowers it easily, her fear could swallow the single syllable in one bite. However, she doesn’t feel anxious or fearful either; both of those emotions strong, but neither of them reigns superior. Instead, there is this strangely familiar wave of softness, wave of light; it washes over her, like an ocean flowing towards her, the fresh water cooling her burning feet. It doesn’t take her long to recognise the feeling - she remembers it clearly from another massive hall; she remembers the way it bounced off those polished marbles and lit up a spark in her chest. “Hopeful.”

Veronica smiles softly and after one last squeeze, she lets go of Betty’s arm. The warmth is quickly replaced by the cool draft that seems to constantly fly through the endless corridors of the building. Almost unconsciously, Betty reaches up and rubs that spot and with the same unfocused unconsciousness, her eyes trail down the hall, until they come to a stop at the massive door.

It doesn’t take long for Veronica to turn around and figure out what Betty is staring at - once she does, there is this deep sigh falling off her lips. “You promised me you wouldn’t just sit here the whole day and let your thoughts eat you up.”

“I know,” Betty answers, a similarly tired sigh falling from her lips. “But I can’t just sit at home either.”

If it was up to her, she would be inside the courtroom, seated next to Charles, watching the whole case unfold from, quite literally, a front row seat. However, even with the amount of work and time she has poured into it, even with the amount of evidence that they have acquired thanks to her, she still wasn’t deemed important enough to be given a permanent place in the courtroom. And the reasonable part of her understands that; she understands the severity of this case, its high profile and importance; but still, the understanding does too little to stop her heart from clenching everytime she thinks about the wall that still separates her from… well, Jughead. (Though she should be happy that she isn’t required to be present, as it is just a further confirmation that it is not her case that is being judged, that it is not Jughead’s future that is being decided.)

“I know you can’t,” Veronica agrees, which takes Betty by surprise - so far, every time her friend found her pacing, overthinking or just zoning out in the courthouse, her tone got laced with this matherly care and worry, practically begging her to finally go home and rest. So this, agreeing that Betty can’t just turn off, seems a bit out of character.

But then it clicks - because, Jughead hadn’t provided them with information concerning only the case about the Serpents. His intel ended up being valuable in another case, a connection between the Serpents and Hiram Lodge that she and Veronica had uncovered quite a while ago, now confirmed by Jughead himself. And even though Hiram Lodge is not on the other side of that door, to Veronica, he might as well be. 

Betty’s head drops to a side as she tries to figure out how to comfort her friend, but nothing smart comes to her mind, so she settles on a simple: “Oh.”

“I was actually hoping you’d come back to the Bureau with me,” Veronica says quickly as if she was trying to change a subject that they haven’t even broached. “I could use a second pair of eyes on a few of the cases I’ve been working on.”

Betty’s eyes jump between the mahogany door and Veronica’s expectant gaze, a move that doesn’t go unnoticed by her friend.

“C’mon, B, when was the last time you worked on a case that didn’t involve Jones or the Serpents? You need a break from all of that mess, something to refresh your mind,” Veronica says and even though Betty knows she is making some good points, a part of her doesn’t want to leave. Being here, in a weird way, makes her not feel completely useless, gives her a certain resemblance of power. Even without being able to influence the case (apart from the testimony she has given on one of the first days), just being in the close proximity of the courtroom makes her feel like she is a part of this. Like she matters.

“You and me both could use a break,” Veronica adds with a new breath and there is something very persuasive about the way her best friend stares at her, her gaze pleading. The colour of her eyes matches the deep mahogany of the courtroom’s door almost perfectly and something in Betty’s heart shifts - maybe there’s a way for her to do more than just sit here and let her anxiety slowly swallow her whole. Maybe, the world will continue turning, maybe, the universe won’t collapse on itself if she takes a break. Plus, Charles was pretty certain this morning that today would not be their last day in the court, so there wasn’t really a reason for her to stick around.

So, Betty ends up nodding and before she knows what’s happening, she is staring out the window of Veronica’s car, watching as the setting sun paints all kinds of warm oranges and deep pinks on the sky, colouring it as if it was its personal canvas.

Ultimately, Betty has to admit that Veronica was right - she didn’t even realise how much she missed working on simple, regular cases until she buried herself nose-deep in the first file V handed her. Using work as an escape from reality, as a way of cleansing her mind and relaxing, almost to the point where it becomes a coping mechanism - those things are familiar to her in a way that nothing in her life has been for a while.

It is easy to fall into the well-known rhythm - reading through a file with meticulous care, examining all acquired evidence closely and then discussing the findings with Veronica, combining their thoughts until they’d arrive at a plausible solution. And it seems to do the trick, because by the time Betty glances at the clock on the wall, it is just past two a.m. and she has not stopped to think about _the_ _case_ , about the Serpents or about Jughead once.

And that realisation shouldn’t feel so weird, but it does - it sinks low in her stomach, this heavy weight that makes it impossible to move, to think, to function. How could she have done that, how could she let her mind forget about the case for so long? How could it have slipped away from just like that? It feels too important to not constantly be on her mind - her heart feels kind of empty without its constant presence. 

She tries to focus back on the file in front of her, she forces her eyes to examine the picture of a vase in the upper right corner, she really tries - but her determination is long gone, her focus having slipped away at the first chance. 

The truth is, Betty is aware that she needs to deal with her feelings, sooner rather than later. They’ve been simmering underneath her skin long enough, growing from a rather stupid and irresposible crush, through a stage of admiration and unadmitted wonder, all the way to this - this, that she doesn’t yet dare to name, doesn’t yet dare to describe, in a fear that it would make it irreversibly real. (Though it might be a bit too late for that already.)

Betty looks up to sneak a peek at Veronica, only to find her friend already staring back at her. There is something about Veronica’s gaze, about her inviting posture and understanding smile that almost makes Betty want to open her mouth and spill all of her darkest and deepest secrets - to let out all those feelings that she has been trying to suffocate inside her chest, to finally set them free and watch not only for the reaction of her best friend, but also for her own.

Telling Veronica should be easy - after all, she already knows so much. Betty can still easily recall the look on her friend’s face when her eyes pierced through all of Betty’s walls, peeked under her defenses and based on nothing more than the way Betty pronounced Jughead’s nickname pieced everything together. (Sometimes, Betty thinks Veronica would be much better suited to be a detective than a forensics scientist.) She trusts Veronica immensely, so what’s stopping her?

Is it a fear of being misunderstood, of being shunned? Does she think Veronica won’t understand? (Or does it come back to the fact that Betty herself doesn’t quite fully understand her own feelings, so how could anybody else stand a chance?)

At the end, she is not quite sure why she decides to not say anything, why she pushes those admissions down her throat instead of up; she simply breaks Veronica’s gaze which is enough to break the moment, and suddenly, Betty feels stupid for even thinking about admitting anything.

“I am probably going to call an Uber and head home,” Betty says carefully, not quite trusting that her voice wouldn’t betray her the moment she parts her lips far enough. She reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone, intent on getting a car since she has left her bike at the courthouse, only to find it dead. “Do you have a charger?” she lifts her head to ask Veronica.

There is still something about the way Veronica stares at her, this genuine concern and kind interest held in her eyes, almost as if a part of her was still waiting for Betty to talk to her, to open up. Offering a refuge, a shoulder to cry on, an ear that would listen and mouth that would not judge. And even though a part of Betty wants to take her friend up on that offer, another part of her realises that in order to be able to voice what she is feeling, she first needs to come to terms with it herself.

Eventually, Veronica waves her hand. “Nonsense, I’ll drive you,” she says, determination replacing that soft invitation.

As they drive through neon-lit streets of New York, Betty watches the city pass by the window and she can’t help but think about the inevitability of passage of time, about how she sometimes feels just like a passenger in her own life, about how things can change without any prompt or warning. However, she also thinks about the constants in her life, about things she can always rely on; she thinks about her job and the familiarity that comes with the procedures she knows like the back of her hand, she thinks about what it means to do what’s expected of her and her moral code and how those two things sometimes don’t match up, she thinks about her friends and the kindness and love they always seem to be overflowing with, ready to shower her with it at any given moment.

So, when Betty gets out of Veronica’s car a few doors down from her apartment building, she doesn’t hurry home. Instead, she lingers by Veronica’s rolled down window, leaning against the frame of the door to get closer to her friend. There’s a lot she wants to say, but one thing seems more urgent than all of the others. “Thank you.”

First, Veronica just nods, but after a few moments, a soft smile spreads across her lips and there is not a doubt in Betty’s heart that she understands - that she understands just how much Betty appreciates her help, her company, her silent support. That even though Betty is not quite ready to confront her feelings, she will eventually get there - and once she does, she’ll be ready to let Veronica in.

Betty’s heart definitely feels a bit lighter as she watches the red taillights of Veronica’s car disappear around the corner of her street.

  
  


**_5_ **

That light feeling hangs onto Betty as she makes her way to her apartment - she catches herself humming a tune of the song that has been playing in Veronica’s car and even though she doesn’t feel light enough to actually consciously continue to do that, a soft smile lingers on her lips anyways, a faint memory of the melody. 

She slips into her apartment and silently debates whether she should grab some quick dinner or just go straight to the bed, ultimately deciding that the left-over pizza in her fridge sounds kind of delicious and irresistible. She heads towards the kitchen, when a light breeze tingles the nape of her neck, dancing along the length of her spine, ruffling the soft baby hairs that don’t quite reach her ponytail.

_ That’s weird _ , she thinks,  _ she doesn’t remember leaving a window open _ .

There’s no way she would have forgotten to close a window.

And just like that, all that lightness that filled her up is gone, replaced by a sense of dread. One dark scenario after another quickly fills her thoughts, her mind already making a long list of every criminal she has put behind the bars recently, desperate to figure out who’d be smart and resourceful enough to get into her apartment.

Her eyes slip towards the cabinet on her right - just a few feet away, her gun is stashed safely in the top drawer. Should she risk going for it or has she already hesitated for too long? Normal people don’t linger this long in their entrance hall doing nothing. She doesn’t have the time to think, to consider the pros and cons of getting her gun, she needs to act quickly - every second she wastes waiting, the chance that the intruder figures out something is wrong rises. (Or maybe she is just overreacting and she is completely alone - however, that does not solve the problem of the open window, the very real breach of her home, of the place that should be her safe haven.)

With a deep breath, she quickly steps over to the cabinet, opening the drawer as calmly as possible. Thankfully, her gun is still there and she switches it for her keys, letting the metal chain drop against the wood with an audible thud.

She turns around, grasping onto the gun firmly, her fingers carefully running along its hard and sharp edges. Another deep inhale passes by her lips just as she leans against the cabinet, her back pushing the drawer shut. Her fingers curl, tight and secure, and her knuckles surely must turn white, a stark contrast to the black handle.

Breathe in, breathe out; focus and aim.

Her legs move, carrying her around the corner with such ease that one could be fooled to believe they have a mind of their own. Her arms swiftly lift up from her waist, the slight tremble left behind in favour of a stiff posture, secure and ready for just about anything.

The first thing that catches her eyes is the way her white curtain sways and dances in the light breeze that enters the room through the open window; the second thing is the warm light that radiates from the lamp right next to it. However, it is the third thing that makes her resolve crumble and an exhale hitch somewhere in the middle of her throat, making the gasp that escapes from her lips next feeling completely breathless. Jughead, seated on the armchair right by her bookshelf, just slightly lifts his eyes up from the journal in his lap, a soft smile spreading across his lips as their gazes meet. 

Too many thoughts are running through Betty’s mind and just thinking about attempting to catch them makes her nauseous - though one simple sentence sticks out, hovering above all others, powerful enough to budge both her heart and knees.

_ He does not look a single bit out of place here. _

The thought should probably scare her, terrify her to her bones; to observe the easiness with which her heart accepts him as a part of her home, as if he has always belonged there. However, instead of evoking fear, it brings back that sense of easiness that resided in her chest as she arrived home, that warmth and peacefulness. Eventually, her mind circles back though, and the questions that present themselves remain the same:

_ The easiness, the simplicity, it should terrify her; so why does it not?  _

_ Why does it, instead of sticking out like a sore thumb, feels like a missing piece finally clicking into its rightful spot? _

A silent “What,” slips off her tongue, all heavy and charged. The rest of the question doesn’t trail behind though, not wanting to leave the comfort of her heart, the comfort of her mouth, as if by staying back her feelings could continue to be protected, could continue to be just her own. As if not finishing that thought could somehow keep her heart inside her chest, stop Jughead’s magnetic force from pulling it out of her chest. 

In a certain sense, this situation takes her back, to a night that feels like years ago, full of gunfire ringing in her ears, tall empty halls that echoed her every step and the air charged with something very similar to what she is feeling now. Unfinished sentences and longing gazes, confessions lingering at the tip of her tongue, knuckles turning white as she squeezes her gun, foolishly thinking the object could be of any protection to her. 

It doesn’t even seem real, thinking about how similar that night at The Federal Reserve feels to tonight; maybe this is just her tired brain finally tipping over the line and going crazy, her wishful thinking piecing a new situation together from her most-visited memories.

But then, Jughead smiles, his lips tugging up softly and the spark in his eyes dancing as he places down the journal he has been holding. It hits the coffee table with a soft thud and Betty can’t not look at it - her eyes lingering at the pencil that’s been left between the pages, on the leather bounding, and her heart clenches, because she remembers how that leather feels under her fingertips, she knows the exact shade of yellow that covers the pages. The thud seems to echo, against the walls of the room, against Betty’s eardrums, against the chambers of her heart - however, it does not last forever, fading away as quickly as it came to be, letting the space around them fill with nothing but silence once more, suffocating and drowning.

Jughead parts his lips and Betty’s gaze is instantly drawn to the subtle movement, like a moth to a flame, so mesmerised by the smallest action that she almost misses the words that follow. “I wanted to see you,” Jughead admits in a half-whisper and there’s just something about the combination of domesticity of his posture, raspiness of his voice and intensity of his eyes that makes Betty forget how to breathe, forget how to speak, forget how to think.

“You wanted to see me,” she repeats, the words dragging out of her throat. They taste sweet and sticky, like melted caramel or warm chocolate, and Betty wants to find out whether Jughead’s lips would taste the same, whether they would be as intoxicating as his sheer presence. 

There are two opposing forces inside of her, fighting for control - her rational part, begging her to get all the answers, figure out  _ why is he here, how is he here, what on the earth is happening _ , and perhaps also scream at him for a while, for forcing her to arrest him, for being the cause of countless sleepless nights and an ever-present headache. For creating this tangled-up knot of anxiety in her stomach, one she did not dare to touch for weeks, knowing it would just fill her up with scenarios she feared the most (what if his testimony eventually wouldn’t be enough for the DA to grand him full immunity, what if they wouldn’t catch his parents, what if she’d do something to screw this all up and not only break her own heart in the process, but also condemn Jughead to a lifetime behind the bars). She is desperate for the answers, however, so is she to soothe her raging emotions. She wants to wrap her arms around him and pull him close, hoping that the physical contact could be enough of a proof that this is real, that she hadn’t just dreamt him up; she longs to find a way to validate her feelings, to see them unpacked and tended to, with love and care. To have them heard out, to have them reciprocated.

“Yeah,” Jughead nods. He reaches for his beanie and pulls it down in one swift motion, his soft black curls springing free. The beanie drops into his lap, but he doesn’t let go of it - instead, without even stealing a quick glance at it, his fingers locate a loose string, as if he had done it a million times before. He starts picking on it, pulling it and wrapping around the tip of his finger and as Betty watches him, it almost feels like it is not just a string, but all her insides, all of her organs and essence that are being played with.

“You saw me today,” Betty chokes out, her voice ragged as the snippet of memory plays out in her mind. Jughead, walking past her to the courtroom, accompanied by half a dozen federal agents. A smart suit, a sharp look and lips pulled into a straight line; a personification of focus, of determination. And then, for a moment, as his eyes catch hers, all of that mask crumbles away, replaced by a dragged blink, like the first one you take when you wake, vision still blurry from the sweet dreams and early morning sunshine. A pinkish colour rushing into his cheeks and corners of his mouth tugging upwards, the tiniest of expressions positively melting all of Betty’s insides.

Jughead shakes his head just as a small playful chuckle breaks through his lips and Betty feels this desperate need to know what exactly has made him laugh, a question already formed on the tip of her tongue - and normally, her curiosity would be nothing out of the ordinary. However, this time, it doesn’t feel so simple; her hunger for knowledge feels somehow more intimate, stemming from somewhere much deeper and feeling much more profound. It’s not just a sheer curiosity for the sake of knowing - no, it’s more of a desperate need to catalogue this piece of information carefully, under a label  _ things that make Jughead laugh,  _ and keep it close to her heart.

“I did,” he hums in agreement, his eyes focused on his fiddling fingers. The thread twirls around his finger as he pulls it taut; and the tip of his finger turns white above the cut off line. He continues pulling and Betty awaits a snap, too flexed herself to even breathe. “But I needed…” he says and looks up at Betty just as the thread tears under the pressure. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but she reads the word off of his lips anyways.

_ More _ .

And her heart clenches, under the intensity of the feelings that are burning it up, under the intensity of Jughead’s stare, bearing straight into her soul. Were somebody to strike a match, the room around them would surely combust, months of simmering emotions and unspoken confessions making it flammable enough. 

She wishes, even for a moment, to be able to forget about the remnants of a wall that still seems to linger between them, about the fear of the unknown, of the future, that keeps stopping her. She wishes she could just will her mouth to open and let the words flow from her heart; she wishes she could give voice to all of her feelings. To express what her heart longs for, to tell Jughead that she feels it too, that she needed to see him again as well. That he isn’t the only one who needs  _ more _ , who is desperate for the other person. 

However, none of the words that she knows seem to encapsulate those sentiments, none of them seem to be enough - and so, what’s the point then? What’s the point of putting yourself out there, of being vulnerable, of showing the other person all your soft spots and painful scars, of sticking your neck out and still failing to express what you’ve been carrying in your heart all along? It takes an immense amount of courage, of trust, to let go of the bullet-proof vest and still stand tall and proud, with chin held high and target drawn just above your heart. 

Maybe a few more minutes could be enough for her to find the courage, maybe a sign from Jughead could be enough of a push. Maybe, maybe, maybe - she doesn’t want to rely on hypothetical situations. “What are you doing here?” Betty asks at the end, her voice steady and calm, her heart giving into the reasonings of her mind.

Something dark seems to flash across Jughead’s face - his brow furrowing slightly and a corner of his mouth dropping down - or perhaps it is just shadows and light playing on his face as he tilts his head to a side. He straightens his back, sitting a bit taller, gone the comfortable, sprawled position Betty found him in.

“They sent me home,” Jughead shrugs. Sadly, the answer reveals very little to Betty. If anything, it actually has the opposite effect - creating even more questions. 

_ Is the case over - have they finished it already?  _ Surely someone would have let her know, right? Charles would have called her, he definitely -  _ oh _ , but her phone is still dead at the bottom of her purse.  _ But Jughead didn’t say that it is all over, only that they have sent him home. _ So what, do they not need him anymore? Aren’t they going to take him to the safe house he has been residing in since he has agreed to testify? Does that mean that he is done, that he has done everything he could and that he is now free?  _ Does it mean that this whole mess is over for him? For them? Are they - _

A streak of warmth runs up her arm, the soft touch enough to stop the train of Betty’s thoughts and pull her back to reality. She blinks, her eyelids dragging as they close and open, as her gaze focuses on Jughead. On Jughead, who is no longer seated on the armchair, half-a-room away from her, but rather standing right in front of her, mere inches of empty air separating them. The fingers of his right hand, gently curled around her upper arm, the fingers of his left hand, a featherlight touch along the line of her jaw. Momentarily, Betty forgets how to breathe. And then, a small chuckle falls from Jughead’s lips, stirring the air between them, bouncing off the walls of her living room and her heart. “You’re thinking too loud.”

A strangled sound escapes Betty’s throat and she herself isn’t quite sure whether it is a laugh or groan -  _ god _ , what else is she supposed to do? Stop thinking? It’d be so easy - she could accept his unspoken invitation and lean into his palm; she could close her eyes and turn off her mind, locking all of her problems and worries away. “Perhaps,” she whispers, the words followed with a sigh. Her shoulders drop lower as the disappointing reality settles over her - it’d be so easy, if only there was such a thing as an off switch. “But how am I not supposed to, when I understand so little?”

Betty raises her chin, effectively disconnecting herself from Jughead’s soft touch - and her body aches at its absence immediately - but it helps her see the conundrum in front of her fully, the crossroads they are standing on much clearer. There’s a choice here and deep down, she knows it is inevitable. 

Her heart, jumping up and down, excitedly pointing one way - eager to throw her straight into Jughead’s arms. Betty can almost smell the faint scent of caramel, sticky and sweet. She can practically feel the softness of his lips, the caress of his fingers on her naked skin. Even just thinking about all of that - about erasing the last few inches of space that separate them - fills her with this white raging fire, igniting all of her insides. The flame would burn her, she is sure of that, but  _ fuck _ , would that be a way to go. Her heart, her dear foolish heart, pleads, pleads and pleads, desperate to have all of its dreams and fantasies fulfilled.

But no matter how much temptation that road offers, how much she just wants to watch herself melt by the burning fire, the crossroads are there for a reason. There is a meaning hidden behind the fork in the road, behind needing to make a decision instead of just blindly hurrying down one path. 

It is in her nature to be careful, to examine each situation meticulously, to cautiously consider every detail and aspect. Reckless is definitely not a word she’d use to describe herself and she refuses to start now. If she, if  _ they _ , want this to work, then it needs to be done properly. Without rushing in, without hiding behind half-truths and without dancing around sensitive subjects. The journey is going to be challenging, riddled with obstacles and hurdles - however, it is not something new. It doesn’t surprise her, it merely reminds her that it has always been this way. Ever since the beginning, since the first time she has thought about Jughead with fondness instead of cold professionalism, she was aware of this - of the inevitability of complications. The weight above her heart has been ever-present, the fear of what the impending clash of their worlds would bring always there, hovering silently in the background.

However, it is not hidden in the background anymore - with Jughead standing in front of her, mostly freed of the demons of his past, the lines between their worlds are slowly blurring, the walls that separate them starting to dismantle.

Jughead eventually steps back, putting a bit more distance between them with a heavy sigh. His brows furrow, creating a deep crease across his forehead; he licks his lips, deep in thoughts. Betty waits and waits, for an answer, for an explanation, for an olive branch. 

“Today was very long and I have spent the majority of it having my life picked apart and meticulously examined to the point where I started learning new things about myself. Quite a weird practise, since the trial isn’t really about me,” Jughead says eventually and from the coldness of his tone, Betty almost wants to apologise - for putting him into that situation, for asking him to testify, while well-aware of just how cruel and predatory trials like these can get, especially if the person on the stand has an extensive criminal record. “But it doesn’t matter anymore,” he shakes his head before Betty can apologise, “they’ve got everything they wanted and therefore have no need for me anymore.”

And it should be everything Betty needed to hear - a confirmation that Jughead is finally free, that their crazy plan has worked. An opening, one that she has been waiting for since the very beginning, an opportunity to make her dreams become reality. However, something still doesn’t sit quite right with her - her heart still continues clenching painfully, her stomach is still tied in knots. Jughead’s expression still isn’t all soft and calm, tension still lingers along the line of his jaw, a question written along the curve of his eyebrow. She tries to decipher it, she tries to solve the puzzle that is the man in front of her, but comes out empty-handed every time.

Ultimately, Jughead must pick up on her struggle, on the way her eyes keep desperately scanning his face, as if the right combination of muscles twitches and blinks could reveal what weighs down his mind. He sighs, deeply, before asking. “Do you feel guilty?”

The question hangs in the air and Betty almost wants to laugh it off and offer a counter-argument, that  _ she _ should be the one asking that. But Jughead’s gaze is steely and guarded, a no-nonsense tightness of jaw and an expectant frown. It catches her a bit off guard and unsureness seeps into her bones. 

_ Does she feel guilty? _ she rolls the question around her mind, peeking into every nook and cranny of her brain to find an answer. A part of her whispers,  _ just look at the mess you’ve made, look at all the loopholes you’ve had to swing through, look at all the secrets you’ve had to keep, _ and yes, a wave of guilt washes over her. But that wave comes and goes and her heart stays unchanged, sure in its answer. “No,” she shakes her head, completely positive that she means it.

But a sliver of doubt lingers in Jughead’s eyes, almost disbelief-like; as if it was not possible, as if it could not be true. “Are you positive,  _ agent _ ?” he asks. “Because, no matter what you tell yourself, no matter how many excuses and explanations you come up with, I still did all those things. No immunity or deal will ever erase that. My motives may have been all nice and noble, but they won’t erase the past either. I still am a criminal,” he pauses for a bit and takes a deep breath, probably in an attempt to return his voice back to a normal level before finishing. “One that  _ you _ decided to let go.” There is a rasp accompanying those words, low enough to send a wave of shivers down Betty’s spine.

Betty knows a low blow when she hears one, she knows a defense tactic when she sees one. And it would be so easy to just return it; to drop the glass that holds all of her anger and watch it break, watch all of the nastiness spill out. And then, after it’d all have dried out, she could easily pick up the shrapnels and cut open every scar she would stumble upon, poke and prod on every insecurity. It would be nothing but honest and really, isn’t that exactly what she wants?

However, it would also tear both of their hearts into millions of pieces, pieces that would not only be hard to mend back together, but would leave an everlasting web of scars and holes, where mistrust and distance could easily bloom. There is no way she is going to let that happen.

She takes a deep breath - deeper than any she had taken for months. “I am not pretending you didn’t, Jughead.  _ Fuck _ , I don’t think I will ever be fully able to comprehend all of it -” well, that’s not exactly what she wanted to say, but it is out now, so she might as well just roll with it, “- but you did what you had to do and so did I. And I will not apologise for that, nor  _ ever _ feel guilty.”

Jughead stares at her and Betty can do nothing else but take his expression in, swallowing it in chunks - the way his pupils are blown, almost black in the dark room; the way his eyebrows pinch together, in frustration or just a thought, she is not sure. The way he parts his lips, as if he was to say something, but then purses them back together before any words can find their way out. The way his jaw clenches, every muscle of his face tightening.

The longer the silence stretches, the less Betty wants to be the one to break it - after all, this should be Jughead’s turn to speak. However, as she keeps staring at him, she starts noticing all these little shifts. The soft light that illuminates his profile seems to reflect off his eyes more a bit more than it used to; the taut line that his lips were pressed into seems to quiver at the corners. His jaw is still tense, but it slides from side to side, the gentlest of the movements.

Betty drops her head to a side as the puzzle pieces click together in her mind.  _ Oh _ . “This isn’t really about my guilt, is it?” she asks before she can think twice about it.

Jughead doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t really need to, his silence being enough of a confirmation. Betty feels her heartbeat picking up on pace as her mind scrambles for the right words - what could she possibly say that would make him feel less guilty? To help him understand that he is more than his file back at the Bureau, more than the pain he had to endure, more than the mess his parents had dragged him into. To help him see that his kind soul and heart made out of gold overpower all of that - that his moral code, his willingness to go the extra mile for the ones he loves, his refusal to sacrifice his beliefs, all of those qualities make him a better human than most, make him worthy of love. And maybe that isn’t enough to erase the feeling of guilt he obviously carries, but it might be a good place to start.

“I think…” Jughead starts slowly. He rubs his forehead and then slides his fingers into his hair and keeps them there, tangled and pressed, and after a couple of moments, his posture seems to soften a little, a small piece of his stress melting away, almost as if the simple movement could offer him a sense of security. Betty’s eyes involuntarily dart to the forgotten beanie on the armchair and her heart goes:  _ oh, of course, I understand. _ “I think up until very recently, I perhaps couldn’t quite comprehend how real this was,” he says eventually, restarting the sentence. “It felt thrilling, it felt forbidden and fun and fulfilling in ways I can’t even begin to describe. I knew I cared, but I didn’t think it was…” And his voice trails off once again, however, Betty can hear the rest of his sentence hanging in the silence between them, the unspoken admission charging the air with heavy sparks.

There is this weight, on her shoulders, on her heart, on her tongue, heavy and familiar. She is back at the crossroads, a part of her yearning to encourage Jughead to continue, desperate for a conversation fueled by honesty, truths and admissions. Longing to have everything out in the open, for no secrets to be left behind their carefully constructed walls. But now, having taken that path and getting the opportunity to see what awaits them down the road, she comes to a realisation that maybe, the fork in the road doesn’t have to be that literal; that maybe picking one route does not necessarily mean the other one can’t be walked. It takes a balance to build a relationship, it takes courage to put your heart out there and believe it will be safe. That maybe there is more than one way to break down those walls, to show the other person their heart without needing to spell every detail out.

There’s a lot of talking that they need to do, a lot of issues they need to work their way through. But the thing is, right now, nothing feels more important, more urgent than to show Jughead that she hears the words he can’t speak just yet and that, she too, sometimes finds it impossible to say the right thing, to offer the perfect solution. 

So, she does what she should have done a lot sooner - what she wanted to do since the beginning - she finally finds that off switch, shutting off her mind and letting her heart act for once.

  
  


**_+1_ **

His unfinished sentence still lingers around, filling up the vast empty space between them. Jughead is no fool - even though he didn’t say the word  _ love _ out loud, he still heard it travel through the room. Actually, he can still see it, dancing in the air around them, joyful and free, and it almost feels as if it is mocking him. He wants to reach and grab the word, stuff it deep into his throat before it has a chance to reach Betty - but it is not possible, not really, so all he can do is watch helplessly as it floats, slowly creeping towards the inevitable crescendo. 

Betty exhales and so does Jughead - her lips part and so does the gaping hole in his chest. He can’t do anything but stare, and so he stares and stares until his stare gets hazy and foggy, until Betty’s edges start softening, blending with the words that continue to twirl all around her. And then he blinks - and for a second, the world stops existing and turns into black - and once he opens his eyes the distance, the tension, the heaviness, they all come crashing down, just as Betty’s lips crash against his.

He waits for the world to stop turning, for all his problems to melt away, for everything but Betty’s lips to cease to matter. He waits for his senses to be completely consumed by the barely-there hint of yasmine, by the warm feeling of love and safety. He waits for that sweet release, for that rock to finally roll off his heart.

None of that happens though.

No matter how close he presses his body against Betty’s, his chest continues to feel heavy, an aftermath of weeks full of fake confidence and sleepless nights; his heart continues to hammer painfully against his ribcage, filled to the rim with all those feelings he’s been carrying around. And then, there is this huge rock in the pit of his stomach and he knows it is guilt, by the taste, by the pain, by the sheer familiarity. 

However, there still is something incredibly calming about the feelings that blossom in all spots where their bodies touch, about the desperation with which Betty keeps their lips connected. Her hands on his chest, her scent in his lungs, her body heat slowly melting away the ache from his muscles. And he guesses that he understands what she is trying to say, what she is trying to show him - that maybe, there is some part of him that is not completely lost.

So, when he eventually separates their lips, he tries to hold onto that flame of hope, he tries to not think about the bottomless pit of guilt and self-deprecation and instead, focuses on that sliver of positivity that Betty has just kissed into him.

He isn’t quite ready to be surrounded by loneliness, not when his heart is still floating outside of his body, not when he is about to put down all of his armour and masks. He lets his forehead rest against Betty’s and he allows that place to be the origin of his strength, the foundation on which he’ll build the confessions he has been longing to say. He steals a bit of Betty’s energy and hopes she won’t mind, hopes that when the time comes, he’ll be able to offer her the same refuge, same support.

Jughead licks his lips and breathes in - here goes nothing. No, not nothing.

Here goes  _ everything _ .

“Of course I feel guilty. I don’t think there’ll ever come a day when I won’t,” Jughead admits and watches out for the inevitable pang of his heart. As expected, it comes, that all-too familiar squeezing, that painful clenching. “But, I’ve made my peace with that, or, well I am working on making my peace with that. With the fact that I allowed my parents to control me, that I acted immorally, that I’ve made a lot of very bad decisions. However, I don’t want  _ you _ to wake up one day and regret...” he pauses to take a breath, because this is it, this is what has been keeping him up at night, what has been weighing on his mind for the longest time, “... and regret  _ me _ . I don’t want to see you slowly grow to resent me because I made you compromise your morals, your code. I don’t want to be the reason why you’d feel uncomfortable in your job, why you’d stop feeling like yourself. That guilt, that comes with ruining the life of a person whom I love - I don’t think I’d be able to carry that.”

And just like that, everything is out in the open.

Jughead doesn’t feel brave enough to open his eyes to sneak a peek at Betty, so instead, he just focuses on the subtle shifts of the air between their lips as they breathe, on the comfort that stems from the spot where their foreheads touch, on the indescribable sense of security that always radiates off Betty. It should be so weird, for a criminal to feel safe in the arms of an agent, but  _ fuck _ , there is no place he’d rather be, not now, not ever.

“Jug,” Betty whispers gently and just like that, every cell of his body comes alive with this soft buzzing, with this soothing energy. He still isn’t looking at her, but his mind conjures up a perfect image anyways - of her eyebrows, knitted together, deep in a thought; of her intense green eyes, piercing right into his soul; of her full pink lips, corners upturned in a soft smile and an invitation, waiting just for him. He wants to answer, he truly does - he wants to press their lips together and attempt to make this time feel perfect, the way he always expected it to go - but a part of him knows it won’t happen unless he finds something to do about the rock that still lays in his stomach.

“I could never resent you,” she says eventually and although the confession is carried by that soft, earnest tone, there is still a part of Jughead that just wants to scoff and laugh.

“You don’t know that; you can’t know that,” Jughead shakes his head slightly, careful to not let their foreheads disconnect, to not lose that touch, his lifeline.

“I do and I can,” Betty argues. She drags her hand up, from the spot on his chest, just above his heart, to his neck, and then to his cheek, where it settles, palm flat against his skin. He melts into it without a second thought, because how could he not? “Look at me, Jug,” she whispers then and it is the exact same as with his cheek melting into the cup of her hand - how could he not?

So, he opens his eyes and is met with a green pair staring right back at him, all intense and soul-piercing, just like he has imagined it would be. It easily renders him speechless, his messy thoughts replaced by a forest that feels like home, a meadow that lets you walk through it barefoot, an emerald that twinkles even under the faintest of lights. It’s the type of stare that makes you feel seen, that makes you believe that the other person has access to every single part of you, no matter how hidden or dark they might be.

And it scares Jughead, it really does, because he knows his insides and they are anything but pretty. The list of things he is not proud of goes on and on, regret and guilt seeded deep in every corner of his mind, their long shadows tainting a vast majority of his memories. He wishes he could just shove all of that darkness into a bag and throw it out; he wishes he could cleanse himself before letting somebody as pure and as good as Betty take a peek inside.

“You trusted me to help Joaquin long before you had any reason to do so. You trusted me enough to meet me and help me out with a case, knowing well how easy it’d be for me to set up a trap. You trusted me when you asked me on a date,” Betty says and her voice catches before she can get any further. The memory, equally painful for him, squeezes his heart, and so he presses himself closer to her, willing his body to whisper:  _ I am here now _ . Betty inhales deeply before continuing. “And then, you also trusted me to get you out of your parents’ grip, to clear your name, to not let you rot in prison.”

Jughead listens, breathless and speechless, waiting for the big reveal. There’s this part of him, the darkest corner of his mind, that screams: _this sounds bad, get out of here!_ _Did you forget that she’s still an agent and you’re a criminal?_ However, that voice gets drowned out very quickly by a wave of, well, there’s only one word to describe it, and Jughead almost laughs at it: _trust_.

“I never asked you to believe in me, I never expected something like that from you, but you always did, no questions or hesitations. But I am going to ask you now,” she says. And after another cycle of breaths, ones that make Betty’s chest rise and fall with a certain sense of determination, the world seems to slow down around them, the sounds of the city fading into distance. His focus zeroes on Betty and it doesn’t feel even a bit wrong. “Trust me that I don’t feel guilty for helping you. Trust me that I will never grow to resent you. Trust me that no matter how hard things get, I will stand by your side. Trust me that I, too, care about you -” her voice is shaking at this point, and so is the world around them, and so is Jughead’s entire body, “- that I, too, love you.”

And just like that, the whole world goes still. Jughead’s heart skips a beat, his mind blanks out so fast, he barely catches his last thought.  _ This is the moment _ .

There is nothing that he could say that would sound right, that could match Betty’s confession, so instead, he bows his head down and brings his lips to meet hers. 

This time, as opposed to the rush and passion that fueled their first kiss and the anxiety that squeezed Jughead’s stomach, the kiss is the epitome of softness. Betty’s lips melt against his like a chocolate on a hot day, all sticky and sweet; her lashes tickle the tops of Jughead’s cheeks. He doesn’t need to chase her lips or pull her impossibly close for the moment to feel perfect; all he needs to do is let his hands slide down to her hips and hold his entire world gently in his palms.

It doesn’t last very long, their lips coming to a natural break and their forehead meeting once again. Betty lets out a soft hum; the air between their lips vibrates, tingling Jughead as it reaches the top of his mouth.

“For the record,” Jughead whispers, pausing for a moment to roll the confession on his tongue for one last time before he finally lets go of it - the familiarity of the words laying on the top of his tongue creating a small smile on his lips. “I love you as well.”

And when Betty smiles, Jughead forgets how to do anything else but kiss her, so he does exactly that.

**Author's Note:**

> i want to hear your thoughts! come scream at me in the comment section below, at [tumblr](www.catthecoder.tumblr.com) or at [twitter](www.twitter.com/catthecoder) (both are @ catthecoder )
> 
> as always, i love every single person who has given even a minute of their lives to this fic - those who reblog my posts and write the nicest things in tags (yes, i read all of them 👀), those who cheer with me on discord, those who come back to the fic and re-read the parts multiple times, all of you have a special place in my heart and it'd be near impossible to write this without your support. seriously, i love y'all 💕
> 
> and, to answer the question that will inevitably come: i've written this whole series in 5+1 style and since this is instalment number 5, you can all guess what comes after that - or, if you're not into guessing, i'm going to say that if i can write fics in that style, why not make the entire series fit as well? so, let me also do something i haven't done since the first part:  
>  _next (and final) instalment: **5 times Betty and Jughead think about their future and 1 time they just enjoy it**_  
>  (title subject to slight changes)


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